chapter two
The Three Editions — Her Words For Me
She writes poems for me. Three of them. I call them editions —
because that's what they feel like. Limited prints. Irreplaceable.
Yaar I keep all of them. Every line. This is why.
Well, I can't put into words what I feel, what I wanna say
It's just smthng weird, in a different way
Weird in knowing you're always there
Whether it be another lame joke, or series shared
Or losing smn that once cared.
Different in the fact that its been so long,
The fact that this feels safe, feels like somewhere I belong
It's not like love, a crush but something a bit too deep
Something I cherish and wish to keep
Because it made me realise that letting people in won't always harm
Some just really care, they're beautiful, they're warm
And if I was a book, you see
You'd be the best chapter written inside of me
Cuz no matter what I do — or say
I still wake up and choose ya every day
yaar. "the best chapter written inside of me."
she wrote that for me. I still don't know what I did to deserve that.
I'm not Shakespeare,
Not someone who's done everything right,
Just someone that loves you pure,
Someone who's willing to fight.
Yet another year, a chapter completely new,
Started from oblivion and ended at you,
And here goes another corny poem, maybe sweet at least from my point of view,
Miles apart and yet it feels entirely true,
So I hope you heal from moments untold,
Hope that we stay and stories unfold,
Wish that you achieve everything you silently wanted, never out loud screamed
Wish that you reach your destination, achieve everything you ever dreamed.
And so my love, this might not mean much,
Walking away? There's no thing as such
I don't promise forever, I just promise I'll stay.
Through ups and downs and every other way.
new year's eve. while the world was counting down to something new,
she was writing this. for me.
"started from oblivion and ended at you."
december 31 will never be the same.
I've written poems, paragraphs so huge they take a few good minutes to read,
Confessions, and what not — like being phrased is what they really need,
And the poems — oh the words, the scattered mess no one else knows,
All the love they convey that I have for you,
And really I'd never get tired of those,
And somehow even the words I write come spiralling back to you..
As if that's where it all belongs,
As if you're just too good to be true — and you were all along,
And trust me when I say that I sound like a loon,
I can't get you the stars — or a piece of the moon,
But what I CAN do, my love, is simply stand
Let down every wall I ever had and hold both your hands,
And then I'd pull you closer, your breath against mine,
Everything else as background noise, frozen in time,
Then you'd grin, lips in that cheeky little smile
I'd zone out, staring for a while,
Then I'd kiss you.. meaningful, slow
Kiss you like I never want to let go
And in that moment, I'd take a step back,
Tear my heart out for you to see,
To observe how deeply you matter in every part of me..
I'd pull you in.. the same way again,
As if that's exactly where I want to be,
Life wouldn't still be perfect, but you're a sight to behold,
A peaceful space in my messy little world.
"a peaceful space in my messy little world."
that's what she calls me. on march 8. three weeks before her birthday.
I read this six times in a row. minimum.
Not a big fan of heavy rainfall, or sunlight and rays,
Or a gentle soul with beautiful eyes, beautiful enuf to light up every one of my days,
But if standing in the rain means getting to see the way it hits your skin,
I'd gladly get myself soaked and drenched, watching as the drops clatter against your grin,
Trapping that exact moment like an image, in the safest parts of my mind,
Frozen in time — as if love itself were a sin,
And when the sky clears up — the water dried,
Flowing somewhere far and completely out of sight,
Like the memories before you, the missing light,
Just me and you there,
And your love that holds me.. tucks me into the sheets and tells me it's gonna be alright,
Not the way they describe in scripts, the 'oh wow, water poured on sand'
But the kind that stays, breathing, alive,
Ignores the wrinkles when youth fades, and still chooses to hold your hand,
'Third edition' you say, as if a few stanzas hold the ability to describe a soul like your own,
Scarred and messy you may think, but honestly?
Loveable, mine,
Far more special than a scribbled mess on paper can define,
The distance — longing, ache so bittersweet, but for now — all left behind,
All because you exist, imperfect but perfectly so,
The kind that makes my heart ache and hurt beautifully and never want to let go,
But to hold you gently, right by your side.
she called me "third edition." she titled me.
"scarred and messy you may think — but loveable, mine."
simran wrote this 21 days before her birthday.
and now it's on a website. forever.
